“I mean, Augusta, that I took it from a very ancient grave——­”

“That I can believe, for the jeweller who made it worked in old Egypt,” she interrupted.

“——­and thereafter I dreamed a dream,” I went on, “of the woman who wears the other half of it.  I have not seen her yet, but when I do I shall know her at once.”

“So!” she exclaimed, “did I not tell you that, east or west or north or south, there is some other woman?”

“There was once, Augusta, quite a thousand years ago or more, and there may be again now, or a thousand years hence.  That is what I am trying to find out.  You say the work is Egyptian.  Augusta, at your convenience, will you be pleased to make another captain in my place?  I would visit Egypt.”

“If you leave Byzantium without express permission under my own hand—­not the Emperor’s or anybody else’s hand; mine, I say—­and are caught, your eyes shall be put out as a deserter!” she said savagely.

“As the Augusta pleases,” I answered, saluting.

“Olaf,” she went on in a more gentle voice, “you are clearly mad; but, to tell truth, you are also a madman who pleases me, since I weary of the rogues and lick-spittles who call themselves sane in Byzantium.  Why, there’s not a man in all the city who would dare to speak to me as you have spoken to-night, and like that breeze from the sea, it is refreshing.  Lend me that necklace, Olaf, till to-morrow morning.  I want to examine it in the lamplight, and I swear to you that I will not take it from you or play you any tricks about it.”

“Will you promise not to wear it, Augusta?”

“Of course.  Is it likely that I should wish to wear it on my bare breast after it has been rubbing against your soiled armour?”

Without another word I unhooked the necklace and handed it to her.  She ran to a little distance, and, with one of those swift movements that were common to her, fastened it about her own neck.  Then she returned, and threw the great strings of pearls, which she had removed to make place for it, over my head.

“Now have you found the woman of that dream, Olaf?” she asked, turning herself about in the moonlight.

I shook my head and answered: 

“Nay, Augusta; but I fear that you have found misfortune.  When it comes, I pray you to remember that you promised not to wear the necklace.  Also that your soldier, Olaf, Thorvald’s son, would have given his life rather than that you should have done so, not for the sake of any dream, but for your sake, Augusta, whom it is his business to protect.”

“Would, then, it were your business either to protect me a little more, or a little less!” she exclaimed bitterly.

Having uttered this dark saying, she vanished from the terrace still wearing the string of golden shells.

On the following morning the necklace was returned to me by Irene’s favourite lady, who smiled as she gave it to me.  She was a dark-eyed, witty, and able girl named Martina, who had been my friend for a long while.